hushaar !

i am warned
to stay away
from the deep
and the dark
corners of my mind.

somebody was there
and did not like
what they did find.

lol.

Boredom

Loneliness. I wake up to a silent day. Coffee and the newspaper. Somebody dead, a thousand dead, somebody won and somebody murdered. Not a flicker on my face. I fold the paper and down my coffee.

Breakfast time. TV. Silicone, murders and pop. I am so bored. I look at my watch and it tells me that there are another twelve hours to kill. I pick a book flip a page, and toss it away.

Should I kill myself ? Maybe death holds some meaning. Maybe I'd feel something then.

Lunch - Chicken. I used to enjoy eating. Now its a task. Death, pain I think again. Maybe.

Night. Dinner is on the table, but I am not interested. I sit at the table and watch my blood pool on the floor below. Interesting color. The sharp ache on my wrist has dulled to a throbbing. I am so bored. Its getting dark. Did I not turn the lights on earlier ?

Oh.

So this is it. But I feel nothing. I was supposed to feel something. Damn.

Damn, its eight already.

I came across this post on a friends blog, with a link to this comic. I hope I have something better to put up for my tenth.

lukoi

head thrown back
running
i drank in the light
running
like i should never
have been able

the ground opened up
the trees moved
one with the green
i moved
things that tripped
and things that snagged
did not bother

graceful and lithe
i drank it all in
sharp contrasts
soft yellow light
a darker green
and the smell -
an epiphany played
played inside of me

easing into a stop
incredulity winning
for a moment
over the newfoundness
the world twanged to a stop
an instant after i did
like rubber stretched
and not wanting to stop
urging me on

i look down
scratches on my arms
almost healing
and flash back to
a glimpse of gleaming
fangs in the dark

only a moment
a single frame
that dissolves into
the world alive
in front and around
my body thrums
with an energy
that will not
be contained

i pull back
one last time
inside
and then
mouth wide
smelling, tasting
tendons stretching
and muscles taut
i bound away.

buckle up dorothy

who or what
and where was i
why and how
and when did i
get to be
into this strange
looking glass
alice - dear lass
thought she
had it bad
i'd give lewis
a run for
the money
he had.

pity

fend !
the barbs
the insults
the backstabbing
the nonchalance
the unending stupidity

what am i fending for ?
fending exhausts
leaves me no time
none whatsoever
to live with
whats mine
might as well
stop
and be rubbed under
trampled to the dust
from whence we
sprung fighting

such a waste.

almost perfect

Its a saturday morning and I look out the window. It frames an explosion of fresh green leaves and a wet earth. The air is cool and the smell of rain lingers - that absoluelty divine whiff of a parched land suddenly made wet. And my lines are prevented from becoming a cliche, by a sky which is a bright white, and not a brilliant blue. A cup of tea in hand, I stare oustide as my mind picks up on a thought. I forget the beauty, as it tries to think of ways to preserve a moment like this forever. Stupid me.

early death

musings, born
out of a monkey mind
that refuses to be still
jumping and grabbing
on to every passing thought
following it around
chattering
gibbering
and discarding it
for the next ,
die an early
death.

free falling

Exhaling, I lean back. Nothing fills my head, a white noise really, a blend of many babbling thoughts. The noise soon fades and my mind floats away. Staring ahead, I try to blink away fleeting ghost patterns that haunt my tired eyes. Shaking my head, I jerk back upright, trying to clear my head off a fog that is fast threatening to overwhelm me. But the sudden movement only serves to pitch my head forward and I am too far gone to resist. "Just two minutes", I promise myself and lay my head down on the table. Lingering I try to remember something. Something I had promised myself just a moment before. Something, something ...

And a sudden "But only in their dreams can men be truly free. 'Twas always thus and always thus will be" flutters in from somewhere, a dying sputter of a thought. But that is the last and I am pulled in. Pulled into a free fall.

Life's like this

Life trundles along the gray plateaus of the daily, avoiding the dark and sunken valleys of despair and missing the tall shimmering hillocks of happiness. There is a path that it follows amidst these, on this endless gray sea of slate. The path which for the most part is by itself, is intersected every once in a while by other paths and more often than not, takes sharp turns into the aforementioned valleys. Life has to be careful, for there are never any signposts put up in advance, to warn it of such things. "Conniving sod!" it says, its irritation directed towards the one who designed all of this. Surprises almost seem to be built in - a feature, instead of a bug.

And every once in a rare while, along the dusty path, are glimpses of what-may-be's. Having stopped now, at one of these, it pauses to look upon the what-may-be. And a moment later it ambles on, wondering about mirages.

A good day

The day wears on and I am witness to a brilliant sunset. Red fills the universe of my sight interspersed with a flaming orange. An orange at war with the red fighting for space and winning in bright streaks. This sunset, I think, should be a fitting start to the end of a good day. But I pause and wonder at what the remains of the day yet hold for me. While the magnificent spectacle plays on, granting me front row audience to a cosmic dance, manifestations of which fill the sky up ahead. Amidst such beauty, I am filled with a longing, not quite sorrow, that a good day is past and is never to be mine again.

another year

"Are you making any resolutions for the new year ?"

"Yeah, I'm resolving to wing it and see what happens."

"So you're staying the course ?"

"I stick to my strengths."

this soldier

A common foot soldier I am and I wield the pen. I was not always a soldier. I was once a common man, looking in from outside. Looking in onto the plain white, afraid to step in. But this battle is a free for all and so I was given my pen and asked to go forth and conquer words. Lay siege to adjectives, capture verbs and bring down paragraphs, sonnets, verses and prose.

Glory and literary acclaim, supposedly await me. Lines such as the pen is mightier than the sword are concocted to help me along. For inspiration I have a whole range of masters. From mere Knights to veritable Gods. People whose prowess with words, words are insufficient to express. Masters and mistresses of form, wit and dialogue, of satire, of drama and powerful intellect. Weavers of new worlds, builders of kingdoms, spawners of demons and dragons. As a foot soldier I look up and upon them and to their victories, legends that I strive to emulate, as I try to shape these words to my ideas.

Are the words there first or are the ideas ? I do not know. They are both at the same time. Without words, I do not know if I would have ideas and of ideas I do not know of any other kind. And yet, once the idea and the words that make it appear, I am able to discern a difference and make the idea be of other words, better words perhaps. More lucid words. Ah lucidity. Every moment on the battlefield, I strive to make my verbs and nouns and prepositions be where they are meant to be. I try to fashion vehicles for my thoughts and emotions, vehicles which will transport and deliver, without much ado to themselves. I do not often succeed.

Millions fight this war. The war remains the same, though the battle has spread to newer arenas, away from the traditional paper and away from the pen being the only weapon. A universe now exists composed of letters, words and lines uncountable, immeasurable. And in this immensity, a common foot soldier, I plod on. Oblivious to the tumult of humour, satire, poetry and prose around me, I am busy in an attempt to leave behind the only things about me that will remain. My body will perish, memories of me will fade, but my words, they will be about. That I was once. That, borrowing from Whitman, I existed, life went on, and these here were my verses.

Particularly weary, I realize that the sun has set on this days battle. So I clear a space on my desk and lay my pen down.

breaking the law

completely wasted,
i was riding the edge
while it lasted

top down and head up,
the night roared by
as my foot wouldnt let up.

my car screamed down the road
and my mind joined in
a while later

past the trees and the posts
as angels above and demons below
gambled on being my new hosts.

stray

somewhere along the way
i stopped being a stray.

orderliness, discipline and rules -
that is what is needed you fools.
or so we were told,
by those that were more than just old.

somewhere further along the way,
i miss being astray,
of thumbing my nose at the world,
and just having it my way.

of such

of patterns in smoke,
of swirling ideas,
and smirking people.

of whimsical writing,
aimless wanderings,
and ruminations.

of bored jottings.

habit

dinner is done
and i sit here
fiddling.
looking, searching, twitching
for my nightly habit

not finding you,
i pick up a pebble
and let it fly
while my mind
skips over everything
with hardly
any interest

my eyes flick
left and right
as my mind invents
reasons and rationalizations
to get rid of this splinter

poking, prodding
it refuses to abate
till i have you
in my sight

you are a nightly habit
and habits are broken
much harder
than they are made

i come back
each night,
wanting you
to grant me some respite.

blood and glory

my sword alive
walking the field
spilling carnage
and blood

madness in me
human no more
slashing
praying for respite

an axe
an answer
bowing my head
to redemption

my soul alive
walking the fields
of elysium.

blood and folly

my sword alive
i walk the field
spilling carnage
and blood

a madness is in me
human no more
slashing
i pray for respite

i am answered
by an axe
rescuing me
to my elysium

nothing

nothing
fills my head now
i am thirsty and take a sip of water
right at this moment -
i could die
a content man

Dead Poet's Society

McAllister: Show me the heart unfettered by foolish dreams and I'll show you a happy man.
John Keating: But only in their dreams can men be truly free. 'Twas always thus and always thus will be.
McAllister: Tennyson ?
John Keating: No, Keating.

about

i dont believe
that i can say more
i shall remain quiet
and smile to myself
some will call me insane
but who says sanity is all ?

ho hum

Oh to spend all day lying in elysian fields. Staring at the sky. And having millions in the bank.
Its simple really. We realize that passion and romance is all right and fine, but on a full stomach.

comfortable

and somewhere
since the beginning of this conversation
'twas something i said
or something i did
you changed
from being chatty
to being quiet and lost
in yesyerday - silent

i sit by the silence
that has you in a hold
moments i dont want to trample in on

with a warm cup of coffee in hand
watching you watch the outside
my fingers tracing figures on the table
not saying anything
comfortable.

jakeward bound

illusions they are
illusions you have
about your paths and ways
but all those roads
lead to me.

55er

The mallu was at it again. "Read it", he said, "and follow the story". So I did.

They had all laughed at him, the whole class. "Assholes!", he thought, gnashing his teeth. He was wearing a trench coat today, and would end it. Chemistry class was where and when it would happen. He patted his coat pocket, feeling the box containing the stink bombs. Smirking, he proceeded to be one of them.

and it rained

the staccato on the roof top has me in a reverie. its almost a trance this feeling of contentment, punctuated by the regular swish of the wipers and more randomly by the glare of a passing vehicle. my mind and body are in perfect sync. neither is exerting itself, nor are they idle. i feel the rhythm. a slight but steady pressure on the accelerator pedal, hands firm but not tight on the wheel. oncoming headlight - slight tightening of the shoulders - ease the foot off the pedal - vehicle passes. resume stance and dance. my body is on autopilot and my mind is empty. empty but not blank. i am there. just there. zipping past on smooth silky roads, towards a destination no doubt, but in no hurry to get there. this is a good state to be in i realize and must be what zen must feel like, and maybe it does. no reason, rhyme or consequence, just the events.

lady writer

Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Lady writer on the TV

- Dire Straits, Lady Witer

what caused the idiot

maybe its because i am not looking. or maybe i am. it doesnt really matter though. i live for the moments, there was one right here and now. moments,they are what matter. give me another while i go looking again.

the idiot

woooo hoooh ! it makes me go. go up and about, humming to myself, i am all sunshine,smiles and sweet saccharine. the world is indeed a splendid place. i know that this will fade, giving way to a more reasonable state of mind. but who cares ? right now, is a moment. grinning like an idiot, i am lost in savouring it.